


Midnight to Tomorrow

by Allekha



Series: YoI New Year's Countdown [14]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Developing Relationship, Guilt, Happy Ending, Kissing, Loneliness, M/M, Past Lilia Baranovskaya/Yakov Feltsman - Freeform, Present Tense, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allekha/pseuds/Allekha
Summary: When Victor tries to seduce him one late night, Yakov knows he should say no. He tries to say no. He doesn't succeed. As one night turns into more, he starts to find that Victor is not quite so happy as he seems.





	Midnight to Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'midnight' on the holiday-prompts New Year's table, and greatly expanded from a snippet written for the prompt 'age gap'.
> 
> I told myself I was going to be writing ficlets for this prompt table.

Yakov doesn't think much of it when Victor invites himself over for New Year's Eve. "If I left you all to yourself, you wouldn't celebrate at all, would you?" Victor teases. Yakov hmphs at him and takes the champagne from him before he drops it while trying to take his shoes off. "Do you even have a tree? I bet you don't."

He does not, in fact, have any decorations up – too much bother, and he sees enough of them when he's out of the apartment. "You know I don't. Come help with dinner."

Victor is at least good at being helpful. Yakov lets him have his fun with arranging the oranges on the table and playing music he likes as he flits about the kitchen on Yakov's orders. It's not the world's most complex dinner, but then, Yakov didn't know he'd be having company to eat it with. They have the essentials, though, olivier salad and the oranges Victor has stacked into a little pyramid.

"It's been a pretty good year for us, hasn't it," Victor muses halfway through the quiet meal.

For all of his skaters, it has been. Mila took silver at Nationals; Victor, of course, took gold, and Georgi a bronze behind an upstart from Moscow, and Yuri's improving well, and nobody has had a serious injury this year, thank goodness. Just the usual, sprained ankles and sore muscles and bruises from spills on the ice.

"What are you looking forward to next year?" asks Victor.

"Yuri gaining focus when he realizes that Seniors is a different game," Yakov replies, and Victor laughs. "I don't seem to recall you having that problem. Well, you didn't try to power through on talent and stubbornness alone, either."

"No, I used talent and stubbornness _and_ my natural beauty," Victor says, making a motion to flip his hair in a way that was a lot more effective when it was long. Now, it just looks silly. "Although I did listen to you when you told me to wait a year! See, you can't say I never pay attention to what you tell me."

"The _one_ time," and Victor laughs again.

Sometimes Yakov has to wonder if there's something in the air at the rink. Georgi is sweet enough and the most obedient of the lot, except when he's going through a bad breakup (which seems to be every breakup of his). Victor at least has the good sense to listen on the most important topics and only picks or chooses from the rest. Mila was a terror when she was younger but is starting to grow out of it – though the hockey players may never be the same – and now Yuri spends half his ice time shouting about this or that.

"But Yakov, you know you love it when my ideas work out better."

Yakov gives him a look, hearing a lead-up to trying to get him to agree to another. "No, you are not going to change out your programs before Euros and Worlds." Victor gets bored of them so easily; if Yakov would let him, he probably would have tried to make one for each competition some season by now.

Victor's smile fades. "I wasn't going to ask," he says. "I don't have anything in mind yet for next year, anyway."

When they finish eating, Victor helps with the dishes and peels too many oranges and doesn't leave. Yakov wonders if he doesn't have someplace more exciting to be than Yakov's couch, watching bits and pieces of classic holiday movies on the television. Then again, as far as he knows, Victor hasn't gone home for New Year's in years. Perhaps this is better than the year he took a surprise trip to Switzerland and still looked hungover when he showed up again a week later.

"I'm going to bed," he finally announces. "Are you going home or should I go find some blankets for you?"

"You're not staying up to watch the new year come in? Really, Yakov."

"It will come whether I watch it do so or not."

Victor huffs and reaches for the remote. The screen flicks off, taking most of the light in the room with it. "We didn't even get to the champagne," he laments.

"You can drink all you want." Yakov decides that Victor means to stay and stands to go fetch some bedding for him. A hand on his wrist stops him. Victor is looking up at him, and there's no expression on his face; still, something about him feels off, at least until he tugs Yakov back down again. "What is it?"

Victor doesn't reply. Instead he makes a soft sound somewhere between a hum and a sigh and tucks his head against Yakov's shoulder. Victor's no stranger to physical affection – he's spent more than one long layover sleeping like this – but as the silence ticks on and he doesn't say anything, only wraps a hand around Yakov's arm, Yakov starts to worry.

It can't be an injury. He would have said. He doesn't seem ill. He hasn't had any problems with his season. That's the short list of things Yakov can help him with, unless he's heard something from one of his rink mates that he wants to bring up.

But Victor doesn't ask for his help. His hand slips from Yakov's arm down to his knee. "Yakov," Victor says softly. He looks at the pale hand on his knee and tries to figure out what Victor is after. "Can we...?"

Those fingers curl over his kneecap. Victor presses into his side. It's so unexpected that it takes Yakov too long of a moment to understand his meaning, so long that Victor is already leaning in, his intention unmistakable from the expression on his face.

"What the hell?" is the first thing that spills from his lips when he puts a hand on Victor's shoulder and pushes him away. He looks hurt, of all things. Yakov can't even get proper words out and settles for sputtering because really, what the hell, this is – and what's with that _look_ on his face, how did he expect him to react, does he really think—

"Please?" He shouldn't even be listening, he should be marching him out of here, god, is this a joke or is there something that wrong with him that he thinks that Yakov would— "I just want to spend the night with you," he says, and his voice is so quiet – so subdued – that Yakov is momentarily distracted by the worry once more. "Yakov, I only... is that so bad? I know you'll be good to me. Anything you want...."

Maybe it's the glare that gets him to trail off. It doesn't change his face at all.

Yakov tells himself that he should shove Victor off the couch and give him a firm no and stop looking at his pleading expression.

"Please," Victor says, leaning closer into him. He plucks Yakov's hand from where it's pushing on his shoulder and places it against his face instead, nuzzles into it. Looks at him. There's something unhappy there, beneath the want, that Yakov doesn't understand.

This is inappropriate, even if Victor is an adult and fully capable of deciding who he wants to sleep with. Even if Victor only ever seems to follow the implicit rules and social conventions that he wants to follow. Even if Victor is lovely and young and handsome and could have half of Europe in his bed, and yet for some reason is throwing himself at an old man like Yakov.

"We shouldn't," he says, voice stern, though it's difficult to pull his hand off Victor's cheek, and not because Victor is still holding it there.

"Don't you want to?" Victor blinks at him, slowly – one eye covered by that ridiculous fringe of his – and puts a hand on Yakov's neck. The touch is soft. "Please," he says again. "Just for tonight?"

Yakov has seen every tactic Victor has for trying to get his way, wheedling and re-wording and just doing what he wants anyway. Most of them don't work on him anymore, if they ever did. This wouldn't be appropriate even if Victor does mean 'just tonight'. But it is late and Yakov is tired, and Victor is warm and handsome and literally begging him, and it has been so long since he last touched another person like this, and if Victor would rather sleep with his old coach than one of his pretty skater friends, that's really his problem. Reasons, not excuses.

"We shouldn't," Yakov repeats, and he doesn't let up on his tone, but he does let his hand brush Victor's fringe from his face and smooth it back into place. "Vitya. Isn't there anyone else you–"

"No," Victor interrupts, and there's another flash of something unhappy before it's gone. "I like you," he says, turning his cheek into Yakov's palm again, crowding him against the arm of the couch. "You want to. Isn't that enough?" There's an edge of frustration to his voice, his patience starting to go.

Yakov sighs. It's always been difficult to look away from Victor, when he was ten and showing off for him on the ice, when he was sixteen and smashing Juniors records, when he was twenty-three and winning nothing but gold, and certainly now in this dim half-lit room where he's trying to crawl into Yakov's lap.

They shouldn't. This is a bad idea, not only because Victor is his student, but also because Victor is Victor. But it feels good to draw his fingers down Victor's jaw and watch his blue eyes go half-lidded. It feels good to press their lips together, gentle, lingering. It feels good when Victor melts against him, the tension in his shoulders bleeding out at Yakov's touch.

He strokes Victor's soft neck and kisses him again. It's easier the second time, the protesting voice in his head quieter. The third is even smoother. Victor responds with small noises from his throat, by catching Yakov's face in his hands. He clings instantly when Yakov tries to draw away, until he says, "You're pressing on my back, Vitya."

"Oh." The sudden panic in his eyes goes away. "Sorry."

Yakov shifts so that he isn't being pushed over the arm of the couch and lets Victor kiss him again, and again, and again. They go from tentative little things to harder and hotter ones when Yakov doesn't stop him. He shudders when Yakov slides his tongue into his open mouth and starts to pluck at the buttons of his shirt.

He's touched Victor plenty of times before. An arm around his shoulders to steer him away from press, long hugs after hearing a new top score at the kiss-and-cry (especially when he was younger), carrying him off the ice after a frightening injury – even more frightening when Victor didn't protest. But not like this. Never, never like this, he would never – but he is, isn't he. Not that Victor would let him stop now, a hand fisting in Yakov's shirt as he arches into another kiss and grinds down against his leg.

Yakov ends up having to help him with the buttons he wants undone so badly, and then Victor pushes his hands up the layers beneath. Both of them gasp at the same time – Yakov, because Victor's hands are so unpleasantly cold. "Hot," Victor mumbles, reaching up further, exploring, or maybe just warming his fingers up.

His fringe falls in his face again as he ducks his head. Yakov tucks it back out of the way. He doesn't know how it doesn't drive him mad; maybe he uses bobby pins whenever he's at home. At least Mila's strange undercut doesn't get in her eyes all the time.

Victor's hands warm quickly, and the touch turns pleasant, having someone put their hands on him like this again, even just stroking down his ribs. Yakov isn't surprised, though, when Victor draws them out to go after his belt instead. He gets it undone faster than the buttons, and Yakov expects the hand slipping down. Victor's cheeks go darker.

A moment later, he's sliding down, off the couch, to his knees. "Vitya," Yakov says, suddenly feeling cautious, but Victor only glances up, that edge of sadness still on his face, and takes his cock in his mouth.

Yakov stifles his shout by reflex. He lets his hand fall away, though – this is his apartment and they're the only ones in it, they don't need to be quiet. Victor's mouth is so much hotter than his fingers, and his _tongue_ – he's very good at this – and he moans lightly when Yakov touches his hair.

He can't remember the last time he did this. There hasn't been anyone since Lilia, and she never liked to – no, he's not going to think about her right now. Not when Victor is doing such wonderful things with his mouth.

He lets himself enjoy it for a few minutes, blank of everything but the pleasure and the soft fall of Victor's hair under his hand, until he happens to glance down. The sight of Victor before him like that, eyes downcast and hidden in shadow, isn't a good one, and Yakov hastens to pull him off. Victor blinks at him, wiping at his mouth, looking normal again, only surprised. He comes up willingly enough when Yakov tugs on his arm.

Victor presses against him once more, tucks his head into his shoulder before worming a hand down to touch him. It's like he's seeking all the physical contact he can get. Which doesn't make sense to Yakov, even given how affectionate he's always been – there's no reason to seem so desperate, surely he could have found someone to sleep with recently if he had wanted to, at Nationals, back at the GPF. He can't be as deprived as he's acting.

Nevertheless, Yakov indulges him, lets him twine their legs together, wraps one arm around his back and the other across his shoulders. "Yes," he whispers when Victor strokes him. "Like that, a little harder – good, Vitya." The words cause Victor to shudder. He's always loved having praise doled onto him, but it's strange to do so in a situation like this.

He's good at this, too. Yakov lets his eyes close, holds Victor, doesn't think about anything but the touch of Victor's hand, the soft kisses Victor keeps pressing to his neck.

It's been a long time since he's come by anything other than his own hand. It feels so wonderful to have the pleasure wash over him with someone else touching him, laying with him, warm and whimpering next to him. Afterward, he feels fuzzy and contented in a way that's escaped him for too long. He simply enjoys it for a few minutes, not thinking. Victor keeps grinding against his hip, making quiet noises when Yakov passes his hand over his hair and back.

Eventually, Yakov slips his hands down to unfasten Victor's belt and return the favor. Victor takes a sharp gasp at the first touch. He tips his head up for more kisses, pushes into Yakov's hand. Yakov keeps an arm around him and keeps meeting his mouth with his own.

Victor pants harder into every kiss. His cheeks are hot when he rubs one against Yakov, and his eyes are going steadily more unfocused. Yakov's never seen him like this, not exactly, although he's seen Victor come off the ice flushed and a little dazed. Even in the dim, it makes for a lovely sight. Yakov runs a thumb over his cheekbone and watches Victor turn his head into it. He kisses it sloppily, murmuring something that Yakov can't hear. His eyes are squeezed shut. "Please."

"Shh," Yakov murmurs, sliding his hand away to push it back through Victor's hair. "Shh, Vitya," and that gets Victor to open his eyes again, look in Yakov's direction, though it doesn't look like he's seeing much.

Then he ducks his head once more, pushes his face into Yakov's shirt, and comes hot all over Yakov's hand.

Yakov strokes his back slowly with his free hand and stares at the ceiling. They shouldn't have done that. But it felt so _good_. It still does, a little, especially with Victor slumped almost on top of him.

"Can I sleep with you tonight," Victor mumbles into his chest, not even inflecting it as a question.

As if Yakov is going to kick him out now. They've already crossed a line drawn much further down.

It's Yakov who finally rouses them both before they fall asleep and gets them somewhat cleaned up before steering Victor towards his bedroom.

The clock informs him that it is twelve minutes after midnight. "Happy New Year," Victor says.

Yakov mumbles a reply and goes to close the curtains against the chill from the windows. He changes into pajamas; Victor simply strips down. That hasn't changed since he was a teenager.

In bed, Victor puts his head under Yakov's chin. Yakov is too tired to feel any more guilt tonight, or so he tells himself. It's nice to have another person in his arms again, breath going slower and slower until he's fast asleep. Yakov runs a hand down his hair and thinks that this has to be just for tonight. It shouldn't have even happened in the first place. But at least, part of him thinks, it has been a good one night.

~!~

Yakov wakes first in the morning, but he only gets about thirty seconds of remembering last night and feeling badly about it before Victor's eyelids flutter open. He smiles at Yakov, gives him a light kiss, and settles down into the covers again. "Can we sleep a while longer?" he asks, yawning.

Yakov checks the time and decides that no, they will not. Victor gets up more slowly than him, grumbling. While Yakov makes breakfast, he sits at the table and watches and gets through two oranges (and leaves one, peeled, out for Yakov).

They don't talk about last night. That's a relief.

Victor manages to chatter about his plans and hopes for the new year through half of breakfast. Yakov doesn't say much of anything, though he notices that Victor's plans don't include much about skating. Well. He's on track to win another Euros and a fifth straight Worlds, and, assuming nothing disastrous happens, there's no reason he shouldn't have another excellent season starting in the fall. Even Yuri – talented Yuri who's a hard worker when he bothers taking practice seriously – is probably not going to be a threat to him at this rate. Not yet. Maybe in a couple of years, unless he really blooms this summer.

So Victor's plans are more about places he wants to take Makkachin and food he wants to try in Japan when they're there for Worlds and vague motions towards maybe taking a small vacation at some point in the summer. (Yakov approves of that last one – if anyone in the sport deserves a few days relaxing off the ice, surely it's Victor. Maybe it would get that strangeness out of his system.)

"Don't forget your promise of choreography for Yura," Yakov reminds him.

Victor blinks at him. So he's completely forgotten after all. "Ah," he says, and then brightens. "He still has to win Junior Worlds first, doesn't he?"

"Again?" Victor grins. "He has a better chance than anyone else." Especially now that Victor has managed to talk him out of pulling quads every chance he gets. Good god, he'll need them in competition at fifteen. The first one was landed years after Yakov retired. Watching his skaters practice them – even Mila is determined to land one – makes him feel very old some days. He wonders again why Victor chose him as his bed partner last night.

After they finish eating, Victor checks the time and makes a face. "I need to go home to take care of Makkachin."

So Yakov sees him out. Helps him do his coat up when he accidentally starts to do the buttons up wrong, makes sure his hat is pulled down over his ears. That done, he steps back and sticks his hands in his pockets. Victor doesn't turn to leave; the moment stretches into awkwardness. Victor coughs and says, "I'll see you soon."

"Have a good day," he says gruffly, and even to his ears it comes off as too short, especially after last night, so he adds, "Stay warm. Go play with that dog of yours. And if I hear about you returning to the rink before you're supposed to, I'm cutting your card access."

"Yakov, you wouldn't," Victor laughs. Yakov raises an eyebrow, and the laugh dies. "Okay, okay." He leans forward for a hug. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year. And for god's sake, call your parents if you're not going to visit them."

Victor pulls his phone out of his pocket. There's a missed call visible on the screen before he turns it off and puts it away. "I will," he says.

And then Victor leaves, and then he is gone, and Yakov goes back to his empty kitchen, sits down, and puts his head in his hands.

What on Earth was he _thinking_ last night?

He doesn't even have the excuse of having been drunk; the champagne is still on the counter, unopened.

All he has is that he is an old man who is too lonely since his divorce and someone young and pretty wanted very much to be touched by him.

Yakov rubs his forehead. The guilt is choking him. It doesn't matter how old Victor is, or that Victor is technically paying him. Victor is still his student and has been since he was young and it is not ethical to sleep with him. Never mind that Victor clearly doesn't think it's a problem. He didn't think it was a problem when he was trying to jump quads at thirteen, either.

Maybe it was one of Victor's strange whims. Maybe they will never talk of this again, and Yakov will only be left with the memory of what Victor's cock feels like, how he likes to kiss.

It's hard to be too hopeful when he knows that not all of Victor's ideas are mere whims. He's loved his dog and devoted himself to her for, what, twelve or thirteen years now? He's spent hours and hours dedicated to refining his programs until they were better than anyone else's could hope to be. He's spent weeks working with composers and costume designers to make everything line up perfectly for whatever stories he wants to bring out of his head.

Yakov sighs and makes himself straighten up. So it was a mistake. It was one time. If Victor asks again, he can say no. Say no, say no, say no if Victor persists, in his stubborn way. Break down why it's a bad idea if he has to, in small words, like the time he sat Victor down for two hours to explain why he was objecting so much to someone small and young and developing pushing their body too hard with jumps. It might not go down well (yet another reason why he should have pushed him away last night), but it's what he should do.

What he will do, if he has to. Yes.

~!~

Yakov spends the next few days quietly. He calls old friends from Moscow – visits old friends he's met since coming to Saint Petersburg, it's been so long. His youngest aunt calls from Israel, too, and proceeds to spend hours updating him on family members he's barely met. She likes being the family busybody, though, so he listens to her with one ear while tidying up, and feeds her a few tidbits that she can pass on to make her happy.

A small part of him wants to call Lilia. He knows better than to listen to that part. He will have to talk to her soon, though; she would be the perfect fit as a ballet instructor for Yuri, if she agrees to it. There's a good chance she will. She likes a challenge and she loves pretty, talented pupils who can work hard and perform beautifully when they apply themselves. (She and Victor got on famously.) He writes a reminder to send her an email into his schedule.

On the fifth, Victor texts him. _Can I come over for dinner?_

Yakov leans against the wall. He wonders if Victor will show up anyway if he says no. Probably, and he won't have the heart to turn him away if that happens. So he texts back a yes.

Victor shows up. Victor eats dinner with him. Victor tells him, when prompted, that yes, he called his parents and had a short, pleasant conversation with them.

Yakov is on edge the entire time. It's hardly unusual for Victor to come over once in a while – he likes to tease Yakov about his perceived lack of social life, although it's not really true – but after last time....

And then after dinner, Victor puts a hand on his arm and starts to lean in. "No," Yakov says, firmly, pushing him away. "We shouldn't and we're not going to."

Victor looks put out. "Didn't you like it before?"

"I shouldn't have agreed before. You shouldn't have _asked_. It's—"

"I liked it. I know you did, too." His voice turns pleading. "Don't say it was a mistake. Please?"

Yakov tells himself that is not weak to Victor's begging. He reminds himself of what he ought to do. He looks at Victor's eyes.

He lets Victor kiss him.

If they're going to do this, they're not going to do it on the couch in an unlit room again. Yakov takes him to the bedroom. Victor keeps kissing him like he'll never tire of it, hands grasping at Yakov's sleeves and cheeks going pinker by the minute. He has to push him away when his mouth gets sore, and then Victor goes for his clothes.

Victor brushes his hands away when he tries to help, so he watches Victor. There's none of the fumbling from last time; his hands steadily work down the buttons and fold clothes as he takes them off, until all of them are sitting on his dresser. Again, Victor doesn't seem to mind or care that Yakov isn't another slim, young figure skater; he presses him to the covers and touches with interest.

Eventually, Victor sits up on Yakov's waist and starts to strip himself. It's far from the first time he's seen him naked or nearly so – Victor lived with him and Lilia for nearly a decade and sometimes forgot to put a t-shirt on if he got up in the middle of the night, or lingered in nothing but a small towel after a shower. But this time – if he's getting this view, he might as well appreciate it. So Yakov looks as Victor reveals skin.

He's all muscle, and not quite as slender as he was as a teenager. Here is the evidence of years and years and years of training and hard work and sticking to a strict diet plan, everything that powers Victor through his record-setting programs. Victor smirks a little when everything is off, clearly enjoying the attention. He lets Yakov have a turn at touching for a few minutes, leaning into his hands, gasping when he trails his hands up to rub at his pink nipples.

Victor comes down to lay next to him to kiss him some more. He clings, again, while Yakov puts a hand on his waist, gropes at the muscle of his ass, dips his head to suck lightly at his neck and collar. Both of them are grinding against each other – Yakov slowly, and Victor rather more insistently.

It's odd to hear Victor moan his name, but moan he does when Yakov works a hand between their bodies to touch him. Over and over, his name and wordless things, so much louder than he was last time. Yakov curls his other hand around his neck and murmurs little, reassuring things against his temple in response.

He can feel all that muscle tensing when Victor comes. The clinging doesn't stop, though, even when Victor relaxes against him. His head is tipped down, face covered by his hair; Yakov tips his head to give him a deep kiss. At the end of it, his pretty eyes open, and he stares dazedly at Yakov. "I should...." he mumbles, moving his hands down a little, not that far. Yakov is content to grip his hip and keep rutting against him until he finds his own peak of pleasure.

"That was good, right?" Victor asks when they're finished and have tucked themselves into bed.

"Yes," Yakov says. Victor hums and turns over so his back is to Yakov's chest. He pulls Yakov's arm around him and puts their hands on top of each other.

"Is that all?"

"What, are you expecting a lecture? If you want someone to be your coach in bed, too, find someone else."

Victor laughs. Yakov can feel his shoulders shake with it. "I didn't mean like _that_." He resettles himself on the pillow. "Next time, could we," he starts, and pauses. Maybe he's waiting for Yakov to protest again, but he doesn't. "Could we try something slower? I meant saying something like that."

"Slower?"

"You know. Slower. With more foreplay." He glances over his shoulder. "We're not in any rush, are we?"

"No, we aren't." Yakov presses his lips to the back of Victor's neck, right on the tiny short hairs where it goes from hair to skin. "Go to sleep, Vitya."

Victor ducks his head. He holds Yakov's hand tighter. He goes to sleep. So does Yakov.

It's confusing, for a moment, to wake up in the morning with his nose buried in someone's hair. He nuzzles into it at first, thinking he's dreaming of Lilia, only to realize that the hair tickling his face is far too short.

Victor's still holding his hand. Yakov, still half-asleep, decides to enjoy the morning company this time and drifts in and out, mostly aware only of the warmth that surrounds them, until Victor starts to stir. He starts to raise his head, then relaxes back to the bed and doesn't move. Perhaps he doesn't realize that Yakov is awake.

Yakov kisses his neck softly before he can talk himself out of it and pulls on his hand until Victor lets go. "Good morning," Victor mumbles to the pillow.

He sits there for a minute, prodding at Victor more and more forcefully until he gets up as well. Victor waves off the offer of breakfast with an excuse about Makkachin and kisses Yakov right before he leaves. None of that strange sadness from a few days ago is evident on his face at all.

Yakov already knows that he's going to say yes to the next time. Perhaps someone better than him could resist, but he's never thought himself a saint. It simply feels too good, and it's not like he's forcing it on Victor. Victor is the one who's been asking him. It's not fine – not at all – and it's certainly not wise (he's seen what Victor's like when he's in a relationship, and if this develops into anything like one...). But it's not, perhaps, the worst thing he could do.

It feels like he's making excuses for himself. Well. That's because he is. But Yakov knows he isn't going to stop this – not right now, at least – and he has enough to worry about with his students besides constant guilt about screwing one of them.

That's what he tells himself. His stomach feels very heavy anyway, and he has to eat his breakfast slowly.

~!~

It's good to come back to the rink. He finds Yuri slacking off, staring at the wall in a way that suggests that he went to bed far too late last night. Georgi isn't on his phone, but his expression makes it clear he's thinking about his girlfriend. Mila and Victor are either skating with each other or against each other.

It takes a few minutes and enduring some whining to sort them out and get them back to work. He wouldn't trade any of them for anyone else.

Victor doesn't give any hint of what they've done at the rink, and he acts as normally as he ever does. Yakov finds himself struggling not to be distracted for a day or two. He's always quietly loved watching Victor at his best, and now there's the slight urge to put his hands on him afterward, as though he could feel the shape of Victor's jumps from it, show him exactly what was so good about that spin.

Yakov ignores all of those kinds of thoughts, and they go away on their own. At the rink, at least. When he's in his bed at night, his apartment cold and quiet, that's a different story.

It's more than two weeks before Victor pauses at the end of practice, smiles at him while putting on his skate guards, and asks if he can come over for dinner. Euros is a few days away. Yakov tells him to be over at a reasonable time.

Victor comes over earlier than expected and helps cook. After they eat, he plays on his phone while Yakov finishes some paperwork that he should have attacked earlier, then checks his own email. (Lilia has yet to respond, but he did only send her a message this morning.) Doing anything after that would only be a purposeful distraction, telling himself that Victor isn't sitting at the end of his couch for the reason he is. He still feels tiny pinpricks of guilt when he shuts his laptop, pulls Victor's arm away from his face, and kisses him.

Just pinpricks. Not enough to stop him from taking Victor to his bed. Slow, he'd said last time. So Yakov goes slow. He kisses Victor's palms before pushing his hands to the covers, not expecting him to keep them there like he does. He scrapes his teeth on Victor's collar. He doesn't even approach Victor's belt until his begging gets too desperate for his tastes. At one point, Victor starts crying out loud enough that Yakov wonders if he should quiet him after all; he can't remember ever hearing much from his neighbors, though, so he lets Victor make noise.

Victor is just as wordless as he is boneless, afterwards. It's not until after Yakov's finished, and they're laying together – Yakov on his way to sleep – that he snuggles in further and finally sighs, "That was really good." He grins, lopsided. "I thought you'd be good at something like that. I liked it."

 _Good_ , Yakov thinks. Not that he thought otherwise, after all the fascinating expressions Victor had made. Yakov, of course, has never seen him look like that before.

"Did you like it?" Victor asks.

"Yes." He's trying to fall asleep, but Victor continues.

"Okay. You can tell me if there's something you want to – you don't have to indulge me or anything. I want you to feel that good, too."

"If you think I'm doing this to indulge you, I worry about whether you hit your head on the ice today."

"You've indulged me before," Victor says with a tiny huff. "Letting me change my routines last minute, or – you let me get Makkachin when I was living with you."

"That wasn't an indulgence. You wore us out." That's half true. Victor had talked his and Lilia's ears off about getting a dog and how poodles wouldn't shed and he would train her to be good and his parents had okayed it and and and. Yakov wouldn't lie to himself and say that the expression of pure joy when he held his puppy for the first time had nothing to do with it, though. Victor opens his mouth. "Go to sleep," Yakov says, and then cups his hand around Victor's head. Threads his fingers in his soft hair.

Victor instantly goes quiet. He goes to sleep.

The next day, it's back to professionalism. There's the last couple of days of practice before Euros, and then herding his students onto their flight and off to the hotel on the other side. Victor sleeps on him when their flight gets delayed, which is nothing out of the ordinary. Yakov carefully makes sure not to do anything unusual in response. At least his students have their phones to entertain them. Not so long ago, Yakov would have had to deal with several increasingly-bored students going stir-crazy. Or worse; one of his (now retired) ladies skaters had had a meltdown after a twelve-hour delay once, too much uncertainty creating too much anxiety piled on too little sleep. That had been a nightmare to deal with.

But now they all entertain themselves. Victor snoozes away, until he wakes up and joins the others in distracting himself with the internet. Yakov reads through an entire novel before their flight gets underway. Other than that, everything goes smoothly.

He's a little afraid of Victor coming to his hotel room during the competition, although he doesn't expect it, and indeed, it doesn't happen. Victor does skate as well as ever, though.

This time, something about his free skate catches Yakov's attention. Maybe it's the expression on his face when it starts. Maybe it's the way he looks afterwards, something off in his smile. Maybe it's the thread of loneliness throughout the whole program, coupled with the way he looked back on New Year's Eve.

It's unsettling. Surely it's all just artistic expression. Part of the choreography. See, here comes Victor, and there's nothing wrong with his smile – it's the way it should be.

Still. Yakov lectures him less than normal, distracted by what he might have seen. Victor blows a kiss to the camera when his score is announced. Not another record, but it's close.

Usually, he lets Victor hug him if he wants to, pats him on the back – not like the days when he'd lift him into the air as a lighter, laughing teenager, like he's done with Yuri exactly once so far. But this time, he wraps an arm around him and gives him a hard shake. "Very good," he says.

"What's this?" Victor laughs, touching his hand briefly before turning to pull him into a hug. "I didn't beat myself again," he laments.

"What, do you think that's the only way to make me proud?" Yakov mumbles, right in his ear where nobody else can hear him say it. Victor draws away, eyes wide. Yakov wonders if that was the right thing to tell him. "Although we have to talk about that small stumble on your triple axel, really—" And like that, everything is back to normal.

Well. It will be until the next time Victor texts him at night.

~!~

Next time that Victor texts him, a couple of weeks later, Yakov calls him back. "You're the one with a dog," he says. "Why are you always the one coming over when you need to take care of her in the morning?"

"I don't know," Victor says. "It was just the way we were – you can come over."

So Yakov, still wondering why they're doing this, goes to Victor's apartment. He hasn't been here for a couple of years. It's neat – Victor has always been clean, always kept his room straight without any fuss – and Makkachin follows them from room to room. Yakov's never been a huge fan of dogs, but as far as dogs go, Makkachin is a good one, and he lingers to pet her in the living room while Victor ducks into the kitchen to finish preparations for dinner.

His apartment has a beautiful view, though moreso in summer than in winter, when the daylight hours last so much longer. Still, the lights of Saint Petersburg at night are pretty in their own way. Yakov looks at them and wonders if Victor's strange mood is simply the result of the winter darkness finally getting to him after twenty-seven years.

After they eat, Victor gets caught up in playing with Makkachin for a while. Yakov sits on the couch, next to haphazard stack of books in three languages (the top one is a cheap paperback titled _The Prince and the Man of Roses_ ). Watching Victor cuddle with his dog, laughing when she nuzzles into his neck, leaning against Yakov's legs, pulls on something in his chest.

He's seen this exact scene before, almost, with Victor ten years younger, all long hair and big eyes and so young and carefree.

Even Lilia had never had the heart to drag Victor away from his dog to make him do his homework or to go to bed. On the contrary, it seemed to fit in well with her whole philosophy of love making people shine, or however it went. And there was nothing Victor loved as much as his dog, except perhaps skating.

Well. But Victor hasn't smiled like that on the ice in a long while, has he?

He looks up at Yakov, grinning, and lets go of Makkachin. He slides up beside Yakov instead, kisses him, presses his face into his neck.

It's early, but they go to bed. Victor's bedroom inexplicably has too many lightbulbs over the bed. Do they even all turn on?

If they can, Victor doesn't do so. He keeps the lights off so the room is just lit by the glow of the city, filtered through gauzy curtains. They have to navigate half by touch, but that's more than enough. Victor's pale skin is easy enough to track in the dim light, anyway.

This time, when Victor kneels in front of him, Yakov doesn't stop him, even if it is still a bit unsettling. If Victor wants to do this, let him do this. And he's certainly acting eager; his nails dig into Yakov's hips, and he mouths at his cock through his clothes before he even tries to get anything off. Yakov is the one who pushes his head away so he can undo his belt and pull everything down.

And then he sits back and lets Victor take the lead with a light hand on his head. Victor is very, very good at this; Yakov's memory wasn't wrong. He teases just the right amount, knows what to do with his hands when he draws away to catch his breath, and looks very pleased with himself whenever he causes Yakov to make some noise.

By the time Yakov is close to finishing, Victor looks almost as dazed as though he was the one with his cock in someone's mouth, perhaps because of whatever his hand is doing out of sight. When he stops to breathe again, Yakov's hand drifts down to touch his cheek. Victor turns into his palm, nuzzles it, makes a tiny breathy sound when Yakov runs his fingers over his hot ear and soft hair, before returning to what he was doing.

Yakov doesn't mean to come in his mouth, or on his face, and he doesn't, exactly; Victor keeps his head where he wants it despite how Yakov tries to pull him off, only to choke and move when Yakov is already coming. Yakov's eyes flutter shut of their own accord. It's a long moment before he can force them open again, and what he sees is Victor holding a hand awkwardly near his mouth, splatters of white on his face.

"Come here," Yakov sighs, and he helps Victor climb stiffly into his lap. While Victor digs his fingers into one shoulder and uses his other hand to go back to jerking himself off, whimpering as he curls closer, Yakov wipes his face off with his own discarded shirt. He watches Victor afterward, conscious of his hand moving faster between them, because he's still not used to seeing him like this. Eyes going distant and then focused on Yakov, teeth biting into his lip, something vulnerable in the lines of his face.

Victor whispers his name. Yakov kisses him, once, twice, slides a hand up the back of Victor's neck, and that's when Victor shudders and collapses against him.

Yakov lets him have a minute, stroking his back, cleaning up with the shirt again. It's quiet in here. Victor lays his head on his shoulder and pants, not moving, until there's a faint scratching at the door. Right. The dog. Victor looks up and tries to stand, only to trip and stumble to the floor. There, he rubs at his knees, wincing.

A little alarm bell goes off in Yakov's mind to see him doing that. But first: he lets Makkachin in. She sniffs around for a moment, then hops up on the bed and treads a tiny circle before lying down. Yakov pulls Victor up on to the bed beside her. Before Victor can start fussing over his dog yet again, he asks, "Do your knees hurt?"

"Yeah." Victor shrugs and rubs at them again.

Victor and his quads, beautiful to look at and absolutely terrible for his knees. Kneeling for however many minutes. The floor, all wood and no carpet. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to ruin it. Besides, it's fine, I've done it before—"

"No." Victor glances up at him, clearly surprised. "I skated until I was older than you are and my wife was a ballet dancer. Do you think I don't understand about working around pain in bed? Don't say that it will ruin the mood. Sex should not be painful." (Unless that's the point, but that's another story, one he has no interest in.) "Next time, _tell me_."

Victor grins. "You really are a coach to the core."

"Vitya, are you listening to me? If I think you're hiding pain again, then I'll leave. Even in the middle."

"You wouldn't!"

Yakov raises an eyebrow and silently dares him. He half-expects Victor to take it as a joke, but he's a little relieved when Victor heaves a put-upon sigh and nods. Then he turns to Makkachin. "Did you hear that? He's so strict! Makkachin, doesn't he worry too much?"

"You don't worry enough," Yakov grumbles. "Do you need to take something for it? Ice, heat?"

"It's fine. Really. I'd rather just go to sleep."

They settle under the covers. Victor ends up sprawled on his chest. In the middle of the night, Makkachin decides that she wants to sleep on their feet. Yakov stares at the ceiling when he awakens, wonders again why they're doing this. He rubs a thumb along Victor's scapula.

When Victor wakes up, half an hour later, he takes Makkachin for a morning run, and Yakov cooks breakfast, and they go to the rink together. Victor practices his quad flip before he goes to run through his short program; Yuri watches with jealousy hidden under a guise of not caring, while at the other end of the rink, Mila perfects her triple axel. Yakov manages to keep his mind off of what he and Victor were up to last night. Georgi goes wobbly for a bit until Yakov takes his phone away so he'll stop texting his girlfriend and making himself upset.

Next week, Yakov goes over to Victor's again, and everything goes well. A few days later, after coming home to an apartment so quiet that his ears ring with the silence, he finally texts Victor first. That night, Victor winces with pain and his grip on both of them slips; they adjust their position and continue. The mood goes unruined. "There," Victor says later. "See, I listened."

"That makes two times in your life," Yakov replies.

~!~

He stops counting their trysts. Once a week, twice a week; it's usually, but not always, Victor who sends the first text or makes an innocent-sounding suggestion at the rink.

One night, when it's been a long week, he calls Victor, who says, "Actually, I'm pretty tired tonight." Yakov is somewhat relieved to hear him say no, strangely enough. "But," Victor continues, "maybe you could sleep over?"

So over Yakov goes. Victor has a bit of a limp from a strained muscle, and they lie on the couch for a while, Victor with a heating pad, Yakov with a couple of pillows so Victor can lean into him, both of them with books. Half of Victor's collection seems to be appallingly awful romance novels, but he has a few that are decent. After a while, Victor closes up his book to play with his phone, then puts that away, too. He turns and pushes his head into Yakov's chest, humming contentedly. Yakov decides that means it's time to go to sleep.

But when they go to bed, Victor keeps shifting, waking Yakov up every ten minutes. "What is it?" he finally asks, when it's been over an hour. "You're moving enough to make me think you're trying to practice your choreography."

"Sorry," Victor says, and it's not the lighthearted apology he usually gives. "I _was_ sort of thinking about my short program for next year."

Finally. Worlds is coming up soon, and no doubt Victor is impatient to work on something new. "What about it?"

"I had two versions of the music made. I couldn't make up my mind about which to use, but I think I've chosen. Hm, do you think Yura would be mad if I gave him the other? It's very pretty. Not cool at all."

"Furious. If they're not too similar, work it out with him."

"They're not," Victor assures him, and then he falls quiet. Yakov expected to be shown the music, for Victor to chatter excitedly about possible layouts so he can talk him down to something more sensible.

"And for your free skate?"

"I don't know." Victor pulls his head further down and plays with one of the buttons on Yakov's nightshirt. "Is there something I haven't done yet?"

That's a tough question. He's done ballet music, _Sleeping Beauty_ and _Swan Lake._ He's done _The King and the Skater_ , though thankfully not _Shall We Skate?_ like every other skater on the planet. He hasn't done _Carmen_ , but maybe that has to do with the way Lilia had glared and suggested that he could do better than clichés when he'd brought it up.

He's done all sorts of beautiful classical pieces. A couple of folk songs. One pretty Chinese song. A terrible rock song and one that had actually sounded decent. Smooth-flowing jazz music. Last year, an electronic song that Yakov had quietly thought was actually rather catchy. Pop music created just for him.

Light and dark, soft and dramatic, cool and pretty, prince and angel and rock star. What _hasn't_ he done?

Yakov is silent for too long, thinking; Victor sighs. "Does it have to be something you've never done before?" Yakov asks.

"How else am I going to surprise the audience?"

"You don't need something entirely new for that, do you? If you could do it in a new way." He doesn't know exactly what he means by that, but it seems like the kind of thing Victor would like to hear. He's always been the artistic type, moreso than Yakov has ever been.

"Hm." Victor plucks at the button again. Yakov curls an arm around him. "I'll think about it. There was something else, too, actually. I keep forgetting."

"Then ask it now." It's not like he's going to get to sleep like this.

"What was it like, when you retired?"

Yakov blinks, uselessly, at the dark ceiling. "Be more specific."

"Like. How did you figure out you wanted to be a coach afterward? When did you know you should? How—"

"You are _not_ —"

"I'm not," Victor says quickly. "But." He goes quiet. "Eventually I will."

The tightness in Yakov's chest doesn't ease. Victor is still at the top of his career – at the top of the world. Why is his voice so quiet, so flat? Why does he _sound_ like he's planning on retiring? Not yet, Yakov wants to plead. Another year or two. A last Olympics if he's up for it. A couple of years on the ice with Yuri. A few last performances, the culmination of two decades of his own hard work and two decades of Yakov's.

Not that Yakov could stop him. There are even good reasons. He knows the toll the sport takes on the body. If Victor wants to coach, there will always be young, new talent that would swoon to be taught by him. He's earned enough that he never has to work again, if he doesn't want to. But he's always loved skating. So why...?

He clears his throat. He can answer the questions, at least. "I didn't feel like I could be competitive any longer. My own coach suggested that I try coaching. I thought I would be terrible at it. I was, at first."

"What? Really?"

"I made a girl I was coaching cry by shouting at her at the wrong time."

Victor shakes his head. "Wow. But you got better?"

"The same way anyone gets good at anything. I practiced and asked people for advice. Did some reading. Do you really want to be a coach, Vitya?"

"You sound so skeptical!" Victor's almost laughing.

"I don't know if you're suited for it." Although he _has_ been trying to teach Yuri things here and there, even Mila. Yuri doesn't listen, but that's not Victor's fault.

"But it looks like fun. And I don't want to be a judge or a commentator. I guess I could do choreography." He tilts his head up, as though he can see in the dark. "I could stay here and you could teach me?"

"I suppose." It's far from the worst idea Victor's had.

"I don't know what else to do," Victor murmurs.

Yakov can surely think of some suggestions. But that's for Victor to decide. "Perhaps you should talk to the therapist at the rink."

"Yakov!"

"Yes, I _know_." Yakov had been skeptical, too. But the sports psychologist employed there isn't a quack. She'd helped students of his with nerves and other things. Georgi goes to her every other week. A few years ago, Mila had seen her for a couple of months and gotten better at controlling her anger outbursts, and at turning her disappointment at a loss into motivation to do better. He would send Yuri to her if he thought it would do any good. Victor has never needed her. Maybe she could say something that would help with whatever it is that keeps making Victor so oddly melancholy. "Just one session. Ask her for guidance on deciding. You have access to the best resources of any skater in the world – use them."

"Fine." Victor doesn't sound very happy about it. Yakov rolls his eyes, and then he tugs Victor up to kiss him. Like magic, it makes Victor melt against him and lose the unhappy look. "Okay, one time. Although I don't know how good she is if Zhora is... well, how he is."

"She's a psychologist, not a miracle worker."

He feels Victor's grin against his skin, and then he settles in like he is actually planning on sleeping now. "And I'll work on my free skate. I'll have something for you, I promise."

"Of course you will." On an impulse, he presses a kiss to Victor's hair, feeling too sentimental even as he does so. He isn't in love with Victor like he'd been with Lilia, once. Then again, he'd come over tonight just to sleep. Well, whatever. It is what it is.

Tomorrow is a rest day for Victor. Yakov sees him at the rink again the next day. He's still working with Yuri, a last few things before he has to run off to school. But Yuri's gulping down water at the moment, so Yakov catches Victor's attention, then very pointedly takes out his phone and texts him asking if he's made an appointment.

Victor gets a surly look. Yakov gives him a glare, then returns his attention to Yuri.

Victor disappears from his view for the next few minutes. When Yakov sees him again, when Yuri is cooling down, he's warming up on the ice. He has a new message on his phone: _Yes_ , and a face made out of letters that looks either angry or unhappy. Possibly both. But Victor himself seems fine, cracking a joke with Georgi.

~!~

Yakov forgets about it entirely for the next few days. He and Victor fly to Japan – no other students at Worlds this year. Victor loves Japan, maybe because it's exotic or maybe because of the food. (The fact that Japan loves skating probably doesn't hurt, either.) They've barely checked into the hotel before Victor is dragging him out again to find dinner.

Victor charms fans and press alike. He chats with Chris in rapid French when they see each other. He goes smoothly from one element to another in practice. Everything seems fine.

His short program is similar in theme to his free skate, the music lighter and faster, the longing tinged less with sadness than with desperation. Yakov's seen it so many times this season. But watching it now – just as at Euros, he can't shake the feeling that there's something wrong, here. That the expressions on Victor's face are too real, not simply for the sake of his performance. Maybe it's the way his smile slips for a moment after he finishes bowing to the audience.

Yakov's distraction must be showing on his face, because Victor looks confused when he steps off the ice. "Did I do that badly? I thought it went well."

"It was fine," he snaps. More than fine.

They sit in silence at the kiss-and-cry. Victor plays with a flower he picked up, then casts him another confused look after his score is announced (above 100 points, yet again). "Yakov?"

"We'll talk about it later." He scrapes together a couple of criticisms, rounds it out with a few words of praise. Victor seems satisfied.

Lonely short program. Normal Victor. Lonely free skate. _Not_ normal Victor, at the medal ceremony. Yakov's seen so many of the damned things that he never pays attention any more, but now that he looks, Victor's barely smiling. It's the smile he gives particularly unpleasant reporters or sponsors, not the one he should be giving a crowd of cheering fans.

He's just won his fifth gold at Worlds in a row. Why isn't he happy? Why isn't he grinning like he always has before, his eyes shining? Yakov doesn't understand what's wrong with him.

Victor's smile gets a little more real when he steps off the ice. He's still clutching his bundle of flowers. Yakov puts an arm around his back to guide him towards the exit, before he gets too distracted being nice to his starry-eyed fans. Well, but he's distracted by his flowers anyway; he spends a moment pulling one out, then presents it Yakov. "Here!"

It's a small chrysanthemum, deep red. Yakov takes it, a little confused. For lack of anything else to do with it, he tucks it into one of the unbuttoned holes in his coat and continues herding Victor along.

Victor eats too much for dinner, and stops to duck into a tiny Japanese bakery besides that. Yakov's not going to fuss. It's the end of the season, and Victor can reward himself if he wants to. Although by buying panda-shaped bread that's overly sweet, really?

"Look how cute they are," Victor sighs, holding his up before taking a huge bite. He's bought one for Yakov, too, who nibbles at his far more slowly.

In the hotel, Victor follows him into his room. "You're not staying overnight," Yakov says before he can even ask. He's already had one nightmare that someone found out about all the nights he's spent with Victor. He's not going to entertain the possibility of someone noticing here. Even though anybody reasonable wouldn't think that Victor was fucking his coach who's, god, forty years older than him – they'd start spinning conspiracies about how they're hiding some illness or injury of Victor's.

"Can't I?" Victor whines, flopping on Yakov's bed and pushing his head against his thigh. He gives Yakov his best puppy-dog eyes. Yakov stares back until Victor gives up. "Do you at least like the flower?"

It's a nice flower. Yakov pulls it out again and gives it another look. It's still just a flower. He looks at Victor.

"Didn't they have books on floriography in the good old days?"

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

Victor sighs and sits up, touches the outer petals of the flower. "If this was a rose, you'd know what it means, right? It's the same thing, but not as obvious." His expression is soft and fond.

"Are we in the sort of relationship to be giving red roses?"

"Well." Victor pauses. "I like you a lot. Why can't I give you flowers?"

Oh, Victor.

Yakov feels very tired. He still has to deal with another email from Lilia. He lets Victor rest on his shoulder for a bit while he types out his reply, then sends him back to his room with a kiss.

It's not until they're back in Russia that he tries to bring up the appointment Victor supposedly made with the sports psychiatrist. Back in Russia and back in Victor's bedroom, which is a mistake, but Victor wouldn't let him get anywhere near the topic in conversation, earlier.

"Did you see her?" he asks as Victor rubs his cheek against Yakov's.

"Yes, yes. Come on, do we have to talk about it _now_?" He wriggles against Yakov, and he is very, very distracting.

Normally, Yakov would say no. But the only reason he's only bringing it up is that there are too many odd things that aren't adding together. The sad looks he keeps getting. How unenthusiastic he'd seemed at Worlds; he wasn't even his usual self during the exhibition, free of any pressure except pleasing his fans. Asking him about retirement. Sleeping with him in the first place. "Yes."

Victor doesn't give up. "But I want you to touch me," he whines, sliding their legs together, giving Yakov his best bedroom eyes. "Please?" He kisses him, clings harder. "You can fuck me or whatever if you want."

The casual way he says it – his tone, the way it's worded like a distraction and not something he _wants_ – makes Yakov feel sick to his stomach. For the first time, he does what he should have done back on New Year's; he shoves Victor away.

He starts to stand – really just intending to go the kitchen and get _something_ to drink, since Victor seems to be incapable of having this conversation here – but Victor seizes his wrist. The seductive look of a moment ago is entirely gone. Victor's eyes have gone wide. "I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I shouldn't have said it like that."

Yakov sits back down. Victor, frowning, pulls himself to a sitting position next to him. "What is going on?" Yakov demands. "You've been acting strangely for months! I've never seen you look like that a competition before. It was like you didn't even want to be there!"

Victor gives a humorless little laugh. "You noticed? I didn't think you'd want to talk about it."

"Do you think I make a habit of prying into my students' personal lives?" He doesn't know the details of Yuri's family situation, only that his grandfather is his emergency contact and he's never ever mentioned his parents. He doesn't know the name of whoever it is that Mila's dating. He only knows that of Georgi's girlfriend because Georgi doesn't shut up about her. But none of those things are necessary to know as their coach; Yuri seems happy with his grandparents and his home stay family, and Mila and Georgi's relationships aren't causing them any harm. "Do you think I want to play therapist? But this is affecting your skating. Therefore, as your coach, I need to know what it is, or at _least_ that you're doing something to take care of it."

Victor frowns further and dips his head. The silence stretches out for a long time, but Yakov doesn't force it to break.

Eventually, Victor settles his head on Yakov's shoulder. "Don't make fun of me."

"Why would I?"

Victor doesn't reply at first. "It's not that I don't like skating anymore," he says slowly. "But at the same time, skating and competing, surprising everyone – it used to make me so happy. Now, it feels more like... a shackle around my neck, locking me in and choking me. It feels like I don't do anything else. I know it's not true. I have Makkachin, and I've been spending time with you lately, and once in a while Yura comes over. But it feels like my whole life is being eaten up by it, and I'm struggling to figure out how to surprise the audience again and again, and eventually my body's going to fall apart and I won't be able to, and what am I going to be then? I don't know. I don't know what to do if I can't skate." When Yakov takes a moment to digest his words, Victor adds, with more than a touch of defensiveness, "I know, I'm incredibly lucky to be where I am and everyone would murder someone to be me and I shouldn't be sad after winning so much, and—"

"And you're being an idiot."

Victor pulls away. Before he can start looking too hurt, Yakov continues.

"How long has this been festering for? How long have you been hiding this? I thought Lilia and I trained you out of that habit as a teenager! Were you going to let that just sit there getting worse until either something happened or you retired and you could mope around your apartment all day? Why the hell didn't you _tell_ me? You're willing to beg me to sleep with you but not say, I'm feeling upset when I should be happier than ever, _maybe something is wrong with me_?"

Victor covers his mouth. His eyes lower, then meet Yakov's again. "Sorry," he says. "I know you worry about me."

Yakov sighs. As much as he might pretend otherwise sometimes, he does. He helped Victor find a good apartment when he first moved out; he's been right there with him when he's been injured, making sure Victor only has the best doctors and the best options. Victor, for his part, took him out the night his and Lilia's divorce was finalized and has been tactful about the topic ever since.

Victor folds his arms around him and leans into him, the same way he's done a million times. "I feel lonely and bored and unhappy when I should be happier than ever. Please help me."

Yakov puts his hand on his head. "I will," he promises. He's not really a feelings person, but – it might be the winter or it might be biochemical, or maybe Victor's just driving himself crazy after fifteen plus years under the intense pressure of being a top athlete. A psychologist might help. If Victor doesn't like the one he's just seen, there are others. Yakov's read the studies and papers that say they work. "There. We'll figure something out for you."

"Thanks," Victor murmurs, and he presses a kiss to Yakov's cheek.

Later, when they're trying to sleep, Yakov can't help but ask, "How long?"

"I don't know. It's been getting worse the past few years, I think. I actually made those programs this year to see if anyone could tell. Or perhaps more like, to see if it was real under everything else."

Image, image, image. Victor's been obsessed with it since he was young. They always encouraged him; Yakov has never thought of it as a negative except when Victor takes too long to get ready for some event. Victor has always seemed happy with it, and it's one of the reasons he's so well-liked by skating fans: he's kind, he's patient, he always has a few seconds to chat and take a selfie. (Not so much by some of the people in the skating federation, who dislike how he doesn't care about what they want him to say, but it's not them that Victor needs to win over.) Now, he wonders.

~!~

Victor is back to his usual cheer in the morning. He even bugs Yakov to come to the rink early. "I want to show you my new programs!"

Yakov agrees, partially because Victor asks while handing him a cup of his expensive coffee. He takes another cup to the rink and sips it slowly as Victor warms up.

"They're still not as refined as I'd like them to be," Victor complains as he scrolls through his phone looking for the music. "I should have had these ideas earlier!"

"It's _April_." Maybe he really does need to make Victor take a vacation. Somewhere where he can go frolic with his dog for a week without thinking about the ice at all and giving his body some rest. His entire schedule can't be booked with ice shows.

Victor gives him his phone. The song is called _On Love: Eros_. It starts with a soft guitar, before the energy kicks up and a beat starts. Victor blows him a kiss and starts to dance down the rink, not – it's not sexy in the same way that Giacometti's skating tries to be, but it's inviting and sensual. Seductive and erotic, but not too blatant. He turns the jumps into singles, then puts a little more effort into his spins and stretches his long limbs.

"What do you think?" Victor asks when the music is done, taking the water that Yakov hands him.

"Really?"

Victor grins. "Did I show you the version of the song that Yura's getting?" He does, while he catches his breath. "It's going to be so pretty! He should get a costume in white. A fluffy little angel floating on the ice."

"He'll hate it."

"But he'll _do_ it. I was thinking black and red for mine, is that too obvious? And maybe doing my hair differently." He pushes at his fringe until it curves along the side of his head. "I could paint my nails again, too. Maybe rouge. I haven't tried that for a while."

"Do as you like." Image, again, but at least Victor seems to be having fun with it. If he wants to try for androgyny again, it did always suit him when he was younger.

Victor hands his phone back over. Yakov knows this song. He knows, in fact, that Victor used to play it from Yakov's records as a teenager. It's slower than the one for his short program, but it matches somewhat, at least.

He raises an eyebrow. Victor smiles back and skates out into the middle of the rink. This time, when he skates, the melancholy of last season's program is gone. Hopefully, that means he's feeling better today, and not covering it up and pretending that nothing happened last night. The program needs refinement, yes, but the movements of Victor's arms are smooth and graceful, and his expression is content.

Yuri shows up some time after Victor has finished. Victor lights up and skates over to show him the choreography. It ends up in a massive argument where Yuri screams about not wanting such an innocent-looking program and Victor keeps laughing and lecturing him. Yakov lets them sort it out.

Yakov eats lunch in his office. Victor joins him with his meal from the cafeteria. Yakov lends him a book related to coaching, and they work in silence for a while. Before he leaves, Victor asks if he can spend the night with him again.

They haven't spent two nights in a row together before. But Yakov nods and tells him to bring Makkachin with him.

The afternoon and evening are quiet enough. Once Victor starts trying to cuddle with him on the narrow couch and pressing kisses to his neck, he doesn't let Yakov get a word out, like he's worried that he'll ruin the mood again.

Victor always acts needy in bed, constantly demanding kisses and touches and as much contact as he can get (is this normal, because Lilia was never – _why_ does his mind keep trying to think of her), but he's even clingier than usual tonight. Yakov takes his time, teasing him like he's learned Victor likes, making sure Victor only gets kisses when Yakov wants to give them.

When Yakov reaches down to touch him, Victor's eyes close and he manages to pull him in even closer. Then, a minute later, Victor reaches for his wrist and gently stops him. It shouldn't be possible for his blush to deepen, but Yakov swears it does.

"I want you inside of me," he says. It's not like last night at all, so Yakov obliges.

He works his fingers into him, more slowly than is actually necessary, because it's satisfying to watch Victor moan and squirm and shift his hips down so that Yakov's fingers go deeper. Eventually, he starts begging, but Yakov murmurs nonsense about not wanting to hurt him and keeps going. He doesn't give in until he's tired of Victor's nails scratching at his shoulders.

Victor wraps his arms around him. "Are you sure this position is fine?" Yakov asks. At Victor's confused look, he clarifies, "Nothing hurts, this time?"

"No," Victor replies, but it's so low and breathless that it's more like a groan.

Both of them moan when Yakov finally pushes into him. He's so – for all that his fingers tend to get cold, he's hot inside. He drops his forehead to Victor's shoulder and takes a moment just to focus on how it feels. Victor wraps his legs around Yakov's waist, too. "Clingy," he mutters.

"Mm." Victor looks at him through half-lidded eyes and tilts his head for a kiss.

Yakov takes one more moment to adjust his own position before he starts to move. Even he is tired of drawing this out. He goes harder and faster than he initially means to, but Victor only seems to encourage him. Demands more kisses until he has to fall away to breathe, holds on to him with every limb.

"Does it feel good?" he pants.

"No, which is why I'm stopping," and Victor laughs and tightens his legs around him. He's not entirely sure he could escape if he wanted to.

But he doesn't.

"You're good at this." Victor bites his lip as his back arches. Yakov licks a bead of sweat from his neck. Victor is always handsome, but he looks pretty like this, even with his hair a mess. He can't resist pushing another kiss to his lips. "Ah," goes Victor when they part. "Please don't stop. This is amazing."

"Shh. I'm not going to."

Victor starts to open his mouth again. Yakov swallows whatever words he means to say, and the sounds both of them make when they shift their angle to something better.

They stop talking. Yakov stops thinking. There's Victor under his hands, all of those muscles moving with him, skin too smooth with sweat. He finds he actually doesn't mind that Victor holds him this closely. He's warm, and Yakov can feel every little twitch that goes through him, even when he can't keep his eyes open any longer, concentrating too hard on how Victor feels around him.

Victor doesn't make any noise when he comes, but he does hug Yakov to him so tightly that for a moment he feels like he can hardly breathe. He relaxes a bit after some moments, giving Yakov more room, smiles at him.

Yakov, as promised, doesn't stop. Not until his own orgasm washes over him, after which he almost collapses against Victor's chest. They lie there for long minutes, neither apparently inclined to move.

Yakov is the one who gets up. He finds a washcloth, lets Makkachin in to hop up on the bed, and makes Victor settle up against the pillow. He doesn't feel any guilt at all.

The next morning at the rink is a mess. Yuri is still in a huff about the theme of his program. Then Georgi comes in crying because his girlfriend has apparently just broken up with him, and then Mila sprains her ankle on that triple axel she keeps working on, and between the two of them and the shouting, Yakov soon has a pounding headache.

He manages to escape into his office for a few quiet minutes. And then Victor bursts in, eyes bright, smiling more widely than Yakov has seen in a long time.

"Look, look," he says, shoving his phone at Yakov. There's a video on the screen. He drapes his arms over Yakov from behind to watch.

It's another skater doing _Stammi vicino_. The Japanese one from the GPF who got incredibly drunk at the banquet and dragged Yuri, Victor, and Mila into it, not to mention several other skaters. He's downgraded many of the jumps, but the step and choreo sequences are as good as Victor's.

"What about this?" It's not the first time some other skater has copied one of Victor's routines.

"Wasn't he amazing?" Victor sighs, draping himself further on Yakov. Yakov feels a sudden tightness in his chest as Victor goes back through the video and points out the different things he likes. Katsuki Yuuri is close to Victor's age, and he's handsome, and he still skates, and Yakov can remember how Victor looked dancing with him, and— "And he _gets it_ , just like you did, I can tell," Victor pronounces.

"And?"

" _And_ he doesn't have a coach right now, I looked him up. Can I invite him to come to Russia? I bet he'd be incredible if you were coaching him, and he needs better choreography than the programs he was using before, I want to make some for him."

"Right."

Victor plucks the phone from his fingers. "Is that a yes or a no? I can't tell if you say it like that."

Yakov rubs his face with his hand. Lilia is going to be here soon. Georgi is going to be useless for the next week. Mila needs to get off her ankle. He already has four crazy students, and now Victor wants to invite another one he has a crush on even though they're already—

"I'm not going to leave you for him, if that's what you're thinking about," Victor says. His voice goes quieter. "I just felt really inspired watching him skate that. Please? Maybe you could even let me take over some of the coaching work. You can yell at me all you want for the mistakes I make."

He is too old for this. "Only during the summer," he warns. "And he has to agree to it first."

"Of course he will," Victor says. "Who wouldn't?" he adds, as if there is no reason in the world that someone might not want to share a rink with Victor Nikiforov.

"Alright," he finally agrees. "You can ask."

Victor grins against his cheek, and then he kisses it. He comes around to kiss him properly, but Yakov puts a hand on his chest before he can do so. "What?"

"Not at the rink."

"It's just a kiss. Besides, I locked the door." He flutters his eyelashes. "You know, it's kind of fun having a secret romance."

Yakov rolls his eyes. But he still reaches up and pulls Victor down for just one kiss.


End file.
